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your division

your division was taken off the march – to patch holes at any cost. radio operators at the headquarters – such cars that you forget about the call sign. let both rice and riesling run out, but there is still plenty of shag. a cold forehead is baked by the thought that there was a war tomorrow, that crows are already loaded in man-made fields near Rzhev. and the sun beat in vain into its vents – so close and its own, and every first one is afraid to perish, and every third one calls the Father, but the mustachioed leader and the two-headed king sternly look from the portrait in the back, pushing with their chests at the embrasures. I don’t feel sorry for the cartridges and the kumach, because it’s driven in firmly: bullets are fools, and the bayonet is a special sadness.

the enemy does not like your division and covers it with fire from heaven – horses, people, iron, wood and lead again interfere. and in such a transcendental mess, an order was given to cook alive. tuberculosis cough, funnels, explosions, bloody crust – really, painfully, to death. run away, choking “cheers”, God bequeaths to the army flock – good with a good rifle, which means: not a step back. one hundred grams for courage, and into the trench. and again, instead of rainbows, tracers pierce the sleepy milk with which blue and autumn, mustard gas and radium are drunk. and in the morning some of the others will be asked to die, touching the holster with their hands.

your division, how hard it is to burn in dugouts and dugouts, when labor pains rush attacks to push to squeeze, when the wind is choking with rancid smoke, dry saliva, and humus again boasts of the dead of past centuries. who knows who to send threats to, call the shell-shocked devils for an encore, seriously cherish the last trump card – the last shot of a lifetime, laugh at the tanks in the trunks and tracks – will they get the strength? red bandages. but rust and scale fell from the souls in the palms of the scorched emptiness. and an angel in a helmet laughs nearby …
but it will throw ashes in your face when the country presents your division for awards – seven fighters.

Mike Zinovkin

Eternal memory to those who died for the Motherland

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